


The Weak and the Weary

by Zai42



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mild Gore, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: That was the one good thing about his short lifespan - he would be spared their deaths, at least.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	The Weak and the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> You ever wanna just *clenches fist* put on Shayfer James and write gratuitous deathfic?

There was a weight on him when he woke. His whole body ached with the tight pain of wounds healed in haste, skin knitted together too quickly, fresh and new and inflexible, the memory of injury still close to the surface. When he opened his eyes, the dim light of the waning moon was stabbing and sharp, too bright, and Grizzop had to lie still for a moment, sucking in ragged breaths, until the nausea passed. 

He hurt. There was a weight bearing down on him. Grizzop opened his eyes again.

He saw carnage. The grass was bloodstained, red or green it didn’t matter - it was all black in the moonlight. Grizzop struggled onto his back, his ribs screaming in protest - broken, yes, he remembered now, they had crunched beneath a warhammer, he had felt the splinters pierce his lungs, he had coughed up so much blood -

Now he took a deep breath, and his ribs lit up with pain but they were whole. His heart thudded against them in mounting dread. Slowly, shivering, he turned to face the heavy weight slumped over him.

Zolf looked, in death, largely how he had appeared in life. If it weren’t for the horrible emptiness in his eyes and the black blood growing tacky in his hair, he may have been watching Grizzop sleep, the way he had so many times before. He was lying half draped over Grizzop’s chest, as if he had thrown himself there, or fallen there - heavy, rust-colored arrows protruded from his back, barbed and cruel. Grizzop scrambled out from under him, his throat constricting. “No,” he said, in a whisper that wanted to be a howl. “No, no, no - hold on, just - just hold on - ”

He staggered up to his knees, cradling Zolf’s hand in both his own, unwilling to leave his side. “Wilde - _Wilde!”_

Now he did howl, his voice breaking, waiting with every muscle tensed for a response - anything, his name, a wordless groan, he would take a damned _pun_ \- but there was only quiet, the same terrible stillness that had hung over the clearing since Grizzop had woken up.

There were so many bodies. Grizzop scanned the clearing, stood on trembling legs and picked through the corpses, looking for movement, for breathing, for anything.

He didn’t have to go far. Wilde was splayed not even a foot away from where Zolf had fallen - face down in far too much blood, his throat slit uncleanly, one hand outstretched as if he had spent the last seconds of his life reaching for Zolf and Grizzop, coming just short of finding them. Grizzop collapsed to his knees, a wounded noise escaping his throat.

“No,” he said, weakly. Then, hackles raising, _“No!_ No, don’t you _dare!”_ Power filled him, hot and righteous and healing, bathing the clearing in pure, silvery light. A few of the corpses burst into holy fire. “Come back!” Grizzop screamed. _“Come back,_ damn it! _Get up!”_

The surge of healing power faded; the clearing sank into darkness once more; Zolf and Wilde were still, unmoving and unmoved, beyond the reach of Grizzop’s magic. He fell forward onto his hands and shrieked in wordless grief, breaking into wracking sobs. “It should have been _me,”_ he gasped. “You stupid, _stupid_ bastards, it should have been me!” The clearing was silent but for the faint rustle of the wind through the trees and Grizzop’s ragged breathing.

Eventually, faintly, far off still, Grizzop could hear someone - Azu, he thought - calling for him - for all of them - but he didn’t call out to her. Not yet. Instead, he curled up between Zolf and Wilde, bridging the distance between them - they were growing cold, and he knew they were empty - but he clung to them nevertheless. “I was supposed to go first,” he muttered.

Azu called his name again, and Grizzop buried his face in his knees and waited to be found.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to everyone who enabled this horror show. You know who you are <3


End file.
